Read American Freak Show Online
Authors: Willie Geist
American Freak Show (10 page)
WELCOME TO THE HADES AIRPORT RADISSON
John Wayne Gacy Banquet Room
SATAN’S CELEBRITY ROAST OF BERNIE MADOFF
With Your Roastmaster Pol Pot
A
ll right, all right, everyone take your seats.” The former genocidal Cambodian dictator Pol Pot taps the microphone at the podium. “Yeah, that means you, Mao: you might have outdone me by 40 million, but I’m runnin’ this shit-show tonight. Have a seat, Chairman.” Mao Zedong flips his buddy Pot a friendly middle finger before finding his way to a table.
Speaking over the din of the crowd, Pot begins the program. “Welcome to the John Wayne Gacy Room at the Hades Airport Radisson. First and foremost, where my Khmer Rouge dogs at?! It’s Year Zero up in this bitch!” A group cheer comes from the back of the room. “Jesus, guys, nice seats back there. Who’s your ticket broker, a Cambodian intellectual?” The line is met with muted laughter. A visibly frustrated Pot turns his sights on the audience. “Sorry, assholes, didn’t mean to go over your heads there. I killed all the Cambodian intellectuals. They don’t like me. Holy shit, am I gonna have to explain these all night? Genghis, I know you’re a borderline caveman, but work with me here.” The crowd laughs. Genghis Khan, not known for self-deprecation, does not laugh.
“But seriously, folks, I’m honored to be your roastmaster tonight as we welcome the newest celebrity member of this fiery little club we call Hell. It was a real thrill meeting Bernie Madoff back in the greenroom. I told him I wanted to diversify my portfolio and he told me, ‘Great idea. Give half to me and half to my wife.’ ” This draws loud guffaws from the crowd as Madoff laughs and throws his hands in the air, resigned to the roasting he’s about to receive.
“I don’t know what it says about the depth of Bernie’s evil, but when Satan met him he said, ‘Welcome home, son.’ Apparently a direct descendant of Lucifer.” Madoff plays along, shrugging and nodding his head.
“The Devil wanted me to tell you he’s sorry he couldn’t be here tonight. He’s reviewing Boy George’s application for early admission down here. It’s looking good for him.” The lubed-up crowd loves it. “You hate to see one lousy incident where you chain a male hooker to your bedroom wall and beat him with a chain overshadow the years of music. Karma chameleon’s a bitch though, ain’t it?” More big laughs. Pot is on a roll.
“I want to introduce the all-star collection of sociopaths joining Bernie up here on the dais tonight. Please stand as you’re recognized.” Pot gestures from the podium down to the end of the long dais draped in fire-red bunting.
“Way down at the end there, the dean of this group, Mr. Pontius Pilate. Stand up, Ponty! Oh, that’s right, you can’t—you’re two thousand goddamn years old!” The audience laughs and throws dinner rolls at Pilate, who sits in a wheelchair, not amused.
“Next to Ponty, a man whose numbers speak for themselves. Ladies and gentlemen, Uncle Joe Stalin!” Stalin, wearing full military regalia and clutching a half-empty bottle of Stolichnaya, staggers to his feet and waves, pointing at the table full of his fellow brutal dictators below and yelling, “Hey, ’Dolf, still think it was a good idea to invade us in ’41? Have fun at the kids’ table, shit-for-brains!” Mussolini doubles over in laughter as Adolf Hitler shoots him a glare.
Pot breaks up the fight. “All right, boys, settle down. Joe, leave some booze for the rest of us, huh?” Stalin takes a huge pull off the bottle, falls back into his seat, and puts his feet up on the dais. Hitler seethes in his chair. Madoff flashes a nervous smile and swallows hard. Hitler is quite intense in person.
Pot continues with the introductions. “Sitting right next to Bernie, a very special guest we invited just for the occasion, Mr. Charles Ponzi. Chuck, say hello to everyone.” Ponzi, unassuming and dressed in a vintage 1920s three-piece suit, stands and doffs his bowler. He is not a regular on the Hades A-list social circuit and receives only lukewarm applause.
“That’s the original right there, folks. Let’s give Chuck Ponzi a nice welcome. Come on!” Pot prods the crowd. “Jesus Christ, Mother Teresa, if I told you he had leprosy would you get off your sweet little ass and clap for the guy? ” Mother Teresa cracks a forced smile, unable to mask the bitterness she still harbors about the epic bureaucratic snafu shortly after her death that led to her being sentenced to an eternity in the fires of Hell. In a statement released after the mix-up, God called the incident “unfortunate,” saying, “Mistakes were made.” Heads rolled in Heaven after that one.
Pot senses Mother Teresa doesn’t appreciate the ribbing. “I’m just fuckin’ with ya, Terry. Don’t get your habit in a bunch down there.” The crowd roars with laughter. Mother Teresa begins to weep. “Oh, Christ. Somebody get her a napkin.” Pot is annoyed.
“All right, back to the introductions. To my left, one of the greatest running backs in NFL history, and a world-famous cold-blooded murderer, Mr. Orenthal James Simpson.” A crowd favorite, O.J. draws whoops and hollers.
“Remember, the Juice will be signing Buffalo Bills mini-helmets and copies of his book
If I Did It
immediately after our program tonight. Good to see you, Juice.
“Seated next to O.J., that pain in the ass Lee Harvey Oswald.”
Oswald stands and shouts, “It was him!,” pointing to Sam Giancana, who is seated at a table playing dominos with Al Capone and John Gotti. Giancana looks up momentarily before turning back to his game.
The crowd boos Oswald, lobbing a barrage of dinner rolls in his direction.
Pot leans into the microphone. “You are such a little bitch, Oswald. I don’t know why we invite you to these things. Have a seat, lone gunman.”
“It was the Cubans!” Oswald shouts feebly, before sitting down in a hail of stale bread.
Pot, who has stated publicly his belief that Oswald gives communists a bad name, ups the ante. “Is Jack Ruby in the house? We need to shut that little weasel up.”
The crowd laughs at Pot’s zinger. Oswald shoots back sternly, “Too far, dude. Not funny. There’s a line, man.”
Pot ignores Oswald and continues.
“And seated all the way down at the end there, the Reverend Jim Jones. He’s the shithead who thought he heard God tell him to lead a bunch of mouth-breathers and their helpless kids down to Guyana for a little mass suicide Kool-Aid party.”
Reverend Jones, dressed in a late seventies-era white suit, smiles, stands up halfway out of his chair, and raises his glass to the crowd. There is no applause. Pot looks disgusted. Jones sits down quickly.
“Look, I’m not riding any high horses up here, but at least I was upfront about my intentions: to completely wipe out the culture, history, and people of Cambodia and start that shit from scratch. I was a straight shooter.
“Those poor bastards at Jonestown thought they were going down to some kind of a summer camp to play tetherball and tell ghost stories. Next thing they know, some sweaty bisexual preacher is handing out shots of cyanide-flavored fruit juice. Not cool, Reverend.”
Jones, feeling the judgmental glare of the group, looks down at his plate and ponders the concept of a moral lecture from Pol Pot.
“Word to the wise: if Reverend Jones offers to buy you a drink tonight, take a pass, if you know what I mean.”
The crowd likes that one. The tension of the moment is broken. Even Jones allows himself a grin before power-chugging his drink and collapsing to the floor.
With the introductions complete, Pol Pot proceeds with the evening’s program. “I see I’m not going to have the attention of you lushes for long, so just a couple of housekeeping items before we let this fuckin’ thief over here say a few words.” Madoff chuckles and shakes his head.
“First, where’s Jeffrey Dahmer?” Pot shields his eyes from the lights and scans the crowd. “Is Dahmer here?” The serial killer looks up from his plate and raises his hand. “Oh, there you are. Yeah, Jeff, the chef wanted me to make sure you know there will be an hors d’oeuvres course, so you can stop nibbling on the Menendez brothers’ ears.” The crowd roars with laughter. Dahmer stares straight ahead, emotionless, his eyes hidden behind orange-tinted sunglasses. “That goes for you too, Idi Amin. Try not to eat any humans tonight. You cocksuckers ruined Ted Bundy’s birthday party last year.”
“Let’s see, what else? Oh, Saddam. Saddam Hussein, are you in the room?” Saddam stands and fires a rifle into the air. “There he is! Yeah, Saddam, we just got a telegram from George W. Bush.” The crowd boos the mention of Bush’s name. Pot talks over the interruption. “Really? Again, guys, I’m pretty sure we don’t get to pass judgment down here. I’m just sayin’. I mean, ’Dolf, seriously. I don’t want to tell you your business, but I’d just lay low if I were you.” Hitler grimaces and goose-steps out of the banquet room.
Pot rolls his eyes. “What a petulant little man. Anyway, Saddam, Bush just wants you to know he’s sorry about everything. Says he meant to invade and later execute the leader of Iran, not Iraq. Bush writes simply, ‘Dear Saddam. My bad. The word “Iraq” looks like “Iran” when they’re making you sign the war thing and you’ve got one eye on the Home Run Derby—Jason Giambi was really jerking those things out of the yard that night. So I was one letter off. Sue me. Shit happens. No hard feelings. Hope we’re cool. XOXO, Dubya.’ ”
Saddam throws his head back, lets out a big laugh, and fires three quick rounds into the ceiling. Pot jumps in, “Whoa, whoa, this isn’t one of your goddamn gilded castles in Ramadi! We’re not gonna get our security deposit back here.” Saddam puts his hands up as if to say “Sorry” and sits down.
“If we’ve all got our firearms holstered, for Christ’s sake, I’d like to formally introduce our honoree. You know, I’ve known Bernie Madoff for only an hour and somehow I’ve already lost my life savings. Hold on to your wallets around this bloodsucking scam artist.” Madoff jokingly makes a move toward Pol Pot’s wallet.
“I don’t want to re-litigate history here, but I dare anyone in this room to look at the greedy capitalist pig sitting over there and tell me I was wrong about killing everyone and starting over with an agrarian society.” The crowd really enjoys where Pot is going. “Actually, Bernie, I had you in mind when I came up with the idea.” Pot gestures to the Khmer Rouge table in the back of the room. “In fact, get him, boys!” The crowd roars. Bernie gets halfway out of his chair as if to run for the exit.
“I’m just fuckin’ with you, Bernie. Water under the bridge, my man. This isn’t about me. This is your night.” As the laughs die down, Pot’s expression changes.
“Just to be serious for a moment, if I could. We honor a man tonight who ran a $65 billion scheme that erased lifetimes’ worth of work and tore apart families. He fleeced hospitals, charities, and even golfing buddies to line his own pockets. His evil knows no bounds. I can tell you now, Bernie, that you were voted into this elite club of the Worst Human Beings to Ever Walk the Earth unanimously and without objection.” Madoff nods in appreciation.
“With that, I will just say, Mr. Bernard L. Madoff, welcome to Hell.” Madoff receives a standing ovation as he walks to the podium. Pot hands Madoff an engraved Waterford crystal bowl and shakes his hand as the pair poses for a photographer who has rushed to the front of the podium. When the applause stops, Madoff addresses the microphone.
“Thank you, Pol. Thank you all very much. Please, please be seated.” Madoff scans the crowd and stops on one member of the audience. “Is that Harry Truman? Really? Kind of surprised to see you here.” The former United States president throws up his hands in frustration as if to say, “You’re tellin’ me.”
“I was sorry to see Hitler leave earlier. I’ve got a bone to pick with that guy on behalf of some of my friends back on the Upper East Side.” The crowd laughs at Madoff’s good-natured icebreaker.
“Look, I’ll be brief here. When I look out at the faces I see in this room tonight, it’s kind of hard for me to believe I’m worthy of your company. You are truly the worst people in the history of human civilization. Except for you, Mother Teresa. I mean, how does that happen?” Mother Teresa begins to weep again.
“I should first give a nod to Charles Ponzi for laying the blueprint. You are the Dr. J to my Michael Jordan. Without you, there is no me. Thank you, Chuck.” Ponzi tips his bowler again.
“I guess in my heart I always knew I’d end up here. When I was taking all that money from little old ladies to buy rare African art for my place in Montauk or ripping off children’s charities to put an infinity pool and one of those big, industrial-size outdoor grills in the place in Palm Beach, I knew it was wrong, but evil is addictive—am I right, Joseph Stalin?”
Madoff looks down the dais to Stalin, who is passed out face-first in a pool of his own vomit. Mussolini is drawing a penis on his face with a black Sharpie. Madoff is losing the room.
“Anyway, I’m honored to be here in Hell. It’s a lot better than making license plates in a federal prison for 12 cents a day. That was just demeaning for a man of my means.” Madoff gets a laugh from the crowd.
“And my sincere thanks to Pol Pot for hosting tonight’s event. You’re overshadowed in the history books by other twentieth-century dictators, but let it not be forgotten that you are one of the biggest assholes in the history of the planet—and one hell of a roastmaster.
“One last thing: I know it sounds crazy, but please do look me up when considering your financial future. Eternity is a long time: are you ready? Thank you all for your kind welcome to Hell.” Pot comes to the podium and gives Madoff a long hug as the crowd applauds.
As the guests begin to disperse, Pot rushes to the microphone with one last announcement. “Hang on, gang. Before you leave, we want to let everyone know that Pablo Escobar has been kind enough to host the after-party at his compound tonight. One important note: if you decline his invitation, members of your family will be executed in public and fed to exotic crocodiles for Pablo’s personal entertainment. See you all there.”
G
eorge Walker Bush, the forty-third president of the United States, has been involved intimately in the planning of his presidential library and museum on the campus of Southern Methodist University in Dallas. President Bush has been especially generous with his time since he was relieved, by a unanimous coaches’ vote, of his duties as commissioner of the Highland Park Little League Association. One team mother called Bush’s tenure as commissioner “a complete f**king mess.” Mr. Bush has called his removal as commissioner “unconstitutional” and the public criticism of his performance “probably unconstitutional.” The president’s tumultuous three months in that position will not be included in the museum, library, or public policy institute that bears his name.
President Bush has insisted, in the spirit of a full accounting of his legacy (except for the Little League thing), that the very first planning and development memorandum he sent to the executive committee of the George W. Bush Presidential Center become part of the historical record preserved there. He didn’t have to make this public, mind you. We tried to protect him, but he’s proud of the document. He calls it his “Jerry Maguire moment.” Wants it framed and hung inside the center’s main entrance next to the display of “The President’s Favorite Sluggers,” a collection of baseball players’ posters that includes those of Frank Thomas, Rafael Palmeiro, and Boog Powell.
In fact, Mr. Bush wants visitors to be able to sift through a compilation of all his presidential e-mails in what he envisions as “one of those cool hologram information things Tom Cruise used to solve crimes in
Minority Report
.” President Bush likes Tom Cruise movies . . . a lot. Especially
Days of Thunder
and
Cocktail
.
Bear in mind, we’ve quietly ignored most of the ideas you’re about to read. He absolutely will not budge, however, on the go-kart track.
From:
[email protected]
Re:
George W. Bush Presidential Center
What’s shakin’ y’all! I don’t mean to brag right out of the gate, but I just beat my all-time high score on Centipede. I took a Polaroid of the screen and sent it in to Atari. I think they send you a plaque or an iron-on patch or something. I’ll put it down there in the basement with all the weird crap those African presidents give you when you visit (thanks for the sawed-off elephant tusk, Prime Minister Mugatu. Anyone have any idea what I’m supposed to do with this thing?). Anyway, I guess you could say I made a little presidential history downstairs in the A/V room today.
Little known fact (and we should throw this in the library somewhere): in 1997, Jeb and I competed in “The Bush Olympics” up at Kennebunkport to decide who’d get to run for president. He won sport fishing and movie trivia. I won hold-your-breath-underwater, home run derby, and Centipede. Guess what? I’m president. I don’t even know what Jeb does these days (I want to say lawyer? Banker? Tailor? One of those).
Anyway, I guess we’ve gotta do this library/museum thing. Honestly, I’d just as soon erase those eight years from the record books like they were Barry Bonds’s career stats and go back to the jai alai fronton for the rest of the afternoon. I mean, do people really want to visit a place to
relive
that nightmare? I seriously doubt it. Jesus Christ, it was horrible the first time. Trust me. I was there. Having said all that, I want you to know I really appreciate all the work you’ve been doing to make this president center happen. It’s not your fault that it’s a terrible, terrible idea. I can tell you one thing: we’re gonna do it our way.
This is kind of like a manifesto (à la
Jerry Maguire—
Show me the money!). I’ll fire off a few thoughts for you to chew on, but my big headline (and I’ll preach this until I’m blue in the face) is DO NOT MAKE THIS THING ALL LIBRARY-ISH!! I’ll say it again because I don’t want there to be any confusion: DON’T MAKE MY PRESIDENTIAL LIBRARY ALL LIBRARY-ISH!! In fact, let’s not call it a library at all. People hate libraries. Reminds them of school and late fees. Why would we build something people hate? Instead we’re gonna call it an Entertainment SuperPlex. Comprenday? (“Understand” in Spanish.)
Our SuperPlex won’t be all stuffy and quiet and full of boring books about presidents nobody’s ever heard of (i.e., Frank Pierce, Jimmy K. Polk, Millard Fillmore [Caution! Nerd name!], etc.). I used to go to my dad’s museum over in College Station to hear speeches by Hank Kissinger and Rummy and I’d look around while they were rambling on and think to myself, “This place is screaming for a batting cage.” So we WILL have batting cages at my Entertainment SuperPlex. That’s an executive order! (I just like saying that now—those dicks never listened when I used to say it in the Oval Office.) Sounds important and forceful, like Harrison Ford in that movie
Air Force One—
“Get off my plane!” Great flick.
So here’s the mission: make this a place where people would actually WANT to go. Our competition isn’t another snoozer library full of geeks and presidential groupie freaks who like sniffing the ink on old Oval Office memos. Our competition is Six Flags Over Texas, which is full of awesome party people who wear tank tops, jean shorts, and Tevas. Six Flags has the Shock Wave roller coaster. What do we have? Policy papers on Medicare and a stapler off John Ashcroft’s desk?
Zzzzzzzzzzz
. . . sorry, I fell asleep for a second there. That was not for effect. I literally fell asleep in the middle of writing a sentence.
You think a bunch of eighth graders on a field trip want to look at some bullshit about the Sarbanes-Oxley Act? Hell no! They want waterslides! So let’s give ’em waterslides! Two waterslides, in fact: one open-topped with tons of twists and a huge drop at the end and then one of those scary covered ones where you can’t see anything ’til you get right to the end. Jesus, I just pissed my pants thinkin’ about it! And a wave pool. And an IMAX theater with a snack counter that sells Twizzlers. This SuperPlex is gonna be so much cooler than my dad’s presidential dork-out center.
I’ll be interested to hear your thoughts on the George W. Bush Kick-ass SuperPlex (remember, NO nerd ideas), but let’s get these ones in the pipeline ASAP while they’re on the top of my head. I’ll forget ’em while I’m bonefishing with Sammy Hagar down in Cabo for the rest of the month. Write these babies down:
1. America vs. Terrorists laser tag played in a big, dark warehouse full of swarthy-lookin’ actors to play the Taliban dudes. Reminds people we kept them safe for 7 years.
2. Interactive John Yoo Torture Memo Experience. (Make this fun and kid-friendly—lighten up a touchy issue. Waterboarding dunk tank? Let’s think.)
3. “Bush Munchers” Food Court (with “Heck-of-a-Job Brownies!” bakery and definitely a Quiznos).
4. “Rock and Rove” Karaoke Thursday nights. Ladies drink free, 9 p.m.–?????
5. Wrestling matches with those hilarious giant sumo fat suits. Those crack me up!
6. Dick Cheney/Condi Rice salt-and-pepper shakers at the gift shop. (See, he’s white and she’s black. Salt and pepper. How great is that?!) Also “the Decider” trucker caps.
7. Nolan Ryan autograph booth.
8. “No Child Left Behind” kiddie coaster.
9. Go-karts, go-karts, go-karts! (Must have mini-golf and chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream.)
10. The Harriet Miers 24-hour Steakhouse and Titty Bar.
Important note: Let’s put the Iraq and Katrina stuff on the top floor with a clever sign that says
MISSION NOT YET ACCOMPLISHED! WE’RE REMODELING
. . . blocking the stairs so no one goes up there. That stuff is a bummer and could ruin an otherwise awesome day of go-karts, waterslides, and karaoke at the George W. Bush Presidential Entertainment SuperPlex.
As you all know, nothing is more important to a president than his legacy. How will history remember the guy? Well, if we go with what we’ve got now, I’m screwed in that department. The San Francisco hippies at
Rolling Stone
said I might be the worst president ever. Of course they were all high on mushrooms and having gay sex with each other when they said that, but that’s what I’m up against out there. Gay hippy druggie college professors are the ones who write the history books. The rest of us have real jobs.
It’s our job right now to get the focus off the WMDs of yesterday and onto the funnel cakes and free pony rides of tomorrow. Let’s rewrite history together, my friends. This is our time.
Peace and love,
W.
TRUE STORY . . .
DUDE, WHERE’S MY WEED?
Man calls 911 to report stolen marijuana
We could argue all day about whether or not marijuana is physically harmful or whether or not it should be legal, but that’s a conversation for another day. Okay, let’s argue for just a second: it’s not harmful and it should be legal. Anyway, whatever your position on the decriminalization of pot, one thing I think we can all agree on is that weed makes you dumb as hell.
Just ask the 21-year-old Salem, Oregon, man who called 911 to report to police that his marijuana had been stolen. Police are of course the state and municipal officials charged with enforcing the laws of the land—so not the first people to turn to when your drugs go missing. According to the cops, the man called the emergency number furious because someone had broken into his truck outside the Free Loader Tavern in Salem and stolen his jacket, $400 in cash, and, yes, just shy of an ounce of marijuana.
Now maybe you write that off as a drunken fluke if it happens once, but the guy called 911 an hour later to complain that police had not yet responded to his first report of the stolen weed. For my money, the best line of the local news report on the incident was as follows: “The dispatcher had trouble understanding [the man], who stopped several times to throw up.” Yes, he was driving around looking for the people who stole his weed, stopping occasionally to barf by the side of the road.
Police eventually found the man and arrested him on charges of driving while intoxicated. They could not file drug charges because, as you’ll remember from the man’s repeated 911 calls, there was no marijuana. Someone had stolen it.